


i saw in the evening

by vegetas



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, including my dignity, this pairing broke into my home and robbed me of everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:10:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/pseuds/vegetas
Summary: thomas spends his hours sorting.





	i saw in the evening

 

> _unhappy about some far-off things_  
>  that are not my affair, wandering  
>  along the coast and up the lean ridges  
>  i saw in the evening,  
>  the stars go over the lonely ocean,  
>  and the black-maned wild boar  
>  plowing with his snout on mal paso mountain.  
>    
>  robinson jeffers 

 

Thomas looked down into the crate, and knew, of course, what had happened.

  
There was leftover straw jutting among the linens - paper thin, and a strange muted yellow, bordering on greenish - that was crushed, and bitten off. In other places it was hinged, barely held together by such insignificant connections they may have well been.

 

 _Little trees_ , he thought, staring mutely at them. _Little trees on a mountainside…_

 

His mind was escaping him, again. It was slipping back to the state it had been frequenting over the course of the days, or hours, or sheer minutes whittling his sense away. A doldrum, where he neither heard nor saw anything except for those rare occasions where some _thing_ firing off inside of him forced out an image so exquisitely vivid and bizarre it corroded every other faculty he had.

 

It was not always entirely unpleasant - only repetitious, at times. Some particle would find itself into the folds of his mind and there it would stick, doomed to turn over and over, however long it wished.

 

 _Little trees_ , _little trees_ , it whispered now, staring in the box. Little trees stripped bare, after an avalanche, buried in clean white snow, with only their crowns showing. The trees were very green, and the snow as clean as an officer’s white gloves… he could see them now, as well, among the little trees clustering before his aching eyes. They hung from limbs, spruce needles tucked gently inside, firm and supple fingers. His hands squeezed at the rough unfinished edges of the crate, palms dragging slowly along the splintering wood.

 

Gloves, falling from the sky. Piling about…

 

 _Little trees_ . _Little_ . _Little_. Came the sound again, his head bowing, nothing but the rush of wind, or blood, rising up to meet his ears in the doldrum, his body swaying softly back and forth. The water was calm, and over the railing he could see piney shores - Greece, or Turkey - Cyprus...

 

“Broken?”

 

Jopson jerked.

 

“All of it?”

 

He felt the Lieutenant come to a stop behind him, arm circling round his to reach into the crate over his own. He breathed heavily after the walk from the officer’s tent -  chest rising and falling so hard the buttons of his greatcoat brushed against Thomas’ shoulder with each inhale.

  
Thomas watched as Little’s hand - large, wide palm, stubby, thick fingers - plowed through the napkins and straw inelegantly.

“I haven’t yet checked,” Jopson said tightly, turning his head to glare in the Lieutenant’s direction, eye fixed on the tent wall. He could not see his face at that angle, and didn’t dwell on what he would see if he could. He doubted Edward could muster anything deemed as _expressive_.

 

Soft _tinks_ followed, and then a waterfall of chimes as Edward lifted the corner of one of the bundles, his other hand, that same broad palm, landing unevenly on Thomas’ back, pushing upwards over the bumps of his sweater, squeezing at the back of his grubby collar, over the taut muscle of of his neck -

  
Thomas threw his elbow back just enough that it landed somewhere among Edward’s ribs, forcing him to step back before he could fill the compartment completely with shards. He heard Edward begin to grunt out something more and rolled his shoulder, his whole body shifting in front of him, caging him out altogether. 

 

“You’re ham fisted,” Thomas hissed, listening to Edward’s boots scuttle on the canvas with the sudden motion of being shoved out of place. There was the telltale _thunk_ of Edward landing on another stack of crates, their contents rattling under his weight.

 

Thomas ignored it, hunching his shoulders and pawing through the broken china as gingerly as he could, numb finger tips padding through the linen for any chance of salvaging them. He felt the form of a saucer and gently wiggled it from between two others that split within the confines of their kerchiefs, unwrapping it into his hands. His eyes traced a hairline break that slanted across an edge. If treated right it could survive some use before the wedge of it chipped off. He used his nail to dig at a black speck on it, the bit flaking off to his satisfaction. It was dirt, or soot.

 

“I asked for Irving,” Thomas found himself saying in the windy quiet that now filled the tent between them. _Asked_ , not _requested_. John Irving, and his ledger. His neat handwriting and soft lead pencil. The sound of it scratching as they counted had a hypnotic effect, allowing Thomas to slip undetected to other places while his body motioned through its paces, his mouth spitting out the proper confirmations. On his own he seemed to drift too far - as far as the Mediterranean and beyond. In made up places, and fanciful corners of the world that did not exist.

 

Edward was silent, and Thomas set the saucer gently aside, trying not to disturb it with the tremors in his hands. They shook with more than anger. Exhaustion, primarily. Weakness. The slow, slow, death they were doggedly delaying. He allowed them to go back into the crate, if they promised to be steady and not disturb, and to his surprise, they obeyed him.

 

When they closed around a tea cup, they settled even more, gentling on the porcelain that had already trundled over the lonely miles, schlepped and unloaded so carelessly onto the scrabbling shingles, pushed and pulled into dingy canvas tents with their sour smells and stains.

 

He unfolded it into his palms soothingly, brushing his thumb over the painted flowers patterned on its side. The prize set with the gold trim was lost forever. He’d pried open the crate and his heart had gone up into his throat. He shouldn’t have let himself be surprised. It was so fragile in its making that it had ground against itself, leaving a fine powder on his hands as he gently felt along the pieces scrambled in their cloth blankets.

 

Tears had slipped down the edge of his nose and landed on them as he bowed his head over the crate. He had dusted that porcelain so many times, arranged it on trays and tables just so, pleased when it winked handsomely in the warm lamp light - the scarlet and gold bright and twinkling against the dark blue of the officer’s jackets and deep wood panels of the Wardoom.

 

They looked happy and cheerful in the officer’s hands, less incongruous than other sets they had, which seemed too dainty at times - childish even. He’d walked them down to be washed himself, overseeing the process before drying them and walking them back, tucking them back into their velvet-lined case to stow in the cupboard, which had been too cumbersome to pack.

 

In the end he dumped them in the shale, toeing them with the edge of his boot so that shingles mixed with the pieces. They were like broken eggs under a hedge -  worrisome red, and white. Frail.

 

His second favorite, the cornflower blue delftware, had been culled, but a few bits and pieces remained, and he treasured reuniting what had been spared with its sisters. He inspected the cup for any imperfections - scratches or cracks that would prevent it from being usable despite its relative wholeness. He ran his finger along the inside, feeling for injury.

 

“I’m sorry,” Little said, his voice hoarse and dry as the air. It rang through Thomas’ skull, giving voice to words he had not spoken to the thing in his hand. “I didn't mean to vex you.” He sighed heavily, and this time, Thomas did turn to look. He had nearly forgotten he was there, and now was nearly irritated all over again.

  
Little stared at the ground, a hand on his oily hair, petting it, the other hanging so that it swung between his knees. Thomas took a breath, eyes closing briefly from the sight. He turned back to the crate.

  
“It wasn’t you, Edward,” he murmured. “You simply caught me in poor humor...”

  
Edward listened to the shifts and clinks from the crate, raising his eyes to watch Thomas’ back move, the sharp wings of his shoulder blades sticking out unnaturally, thin arms picking things up and turning them, unwrapping them, keeping some separate or discarding others, dropping them back in slots. He was dropping weight so quickly that Edward could not conceive of how he even managed to lift the tins to his mouth when he ate.

 

“It’s a shame,” Edward said, and Thomas paused, his head moving for a moment, and then dropping to its task again.

  
“It is,” Thomas said, clearing his throat. Edward watched, he watched long enough that Thomas’ movements became less coordinated, his precision waning in favor of paddling loosely through them. He had not pulled anything out in a while. Edward’s eyes strayed to the meager pile on the edge of the table - two cups. A saucer. A pile of spoons with nothing to use them for.

 

It was so odd, to find himself merely sitting there. In a previous life (how foreign it felt), if they’d been alone in some other room, and he had come upon him sorting through his china, he would have had other intentions.He would have acted on other impulses taken with _distinct,_ strategic advantage, immediately. Jopson sorting through china in and of itself would have been an unnecessary act - a farce - for no one knew better each artifact of home, and civilized company, that had been brought aboard that ship more than he did. He nearly _mothered_ them; the vases, and books, the candlesticks and trinkets and trifle.

 

Standing at the edge of the tent, seeing him bent over the crate motionless, Edward almost thought he may have been waiting for him like those former, warmer times. Coming upon him with shirts in his lap, sleeves being petted by his hand absently, eyes far closer than the distance told, for just the scent of Edward’s collar had sent him into a reverie, and in his daydreams he spent long and languid hours in his arms.

 

How he’d tilt his chin to him - slip a thumb into his mouth, peer into the sea glass jewels of his eyes that followed his back, hanging like jade talismans for all their magic over him.

 

 _If we’ve done it right,_ Edward told him, hushed into his ear. _It will pass so unnoticed no one would believe it - ._

  
Who would ever suspect? It was unthinkable. He knew what the common conception of him was, and didn’t argue its truth. He was not a man for intimacies; even friendship seemed a stretch. He was content to remain buttoned inside his coat quite comfortably, never distracted from his duties.There were all the proper assumptions in their favor.

 

Thomas was the only exception, it seemed, to Edward’s rules.

 

 _Thomas_.

 

He did not ever anticipate the one left to wonder on the realness, to hold the scattered evidence, would be him. He tried to repeat the mantra, even as Thomas descended into these bouts of upset that lasted longer and longer each time they came, twisting him more and more, stripping him like a screw.

 

 _I love thee._ He said it mentally, to Jopson, even when he turned his back on him, even when his eyes turned cursed and seethed upon him. When they began to fail to understand each other. When Thomas began to drift, un-tethered, to that irretrievable place they all had begun to visit, one by one, in turn. _I love thee -  for all thy beauty, and thy faults, which are so few -_

 

He heard his heart's ugly poetry echo on the lonely alien landscape, scratched it onto paper that he tore and let it be carried off on the gales. There were no other ways to say these things, anymore.   
  
“I’ve lost my handkerchief,” Little said forlornly, and Thomas found he had stopped again. He had been playing an entire conversation in his mind. An argument - between he and Edward. His mouth had bitten out harsh words, incredulously, but to his utter bewilderment he found it closed, and Edward still sitting behind him, stoic as a grave. He had not ducked out of sight, as others did when he prickled the air with his new strangeness, but stubbornly remained, lost in his own thoughts, perhaps.

 

“Wind tugged it right out of my hand,” he continued, and Thomas could hear he was rubbing his knuckle over his mouth from the way it muffled his words. Thomas’ lips parted then shut again, lifting a hand to touch his own forehead in frustration.

 

“You are always losing track of them, Edward,” he hushed to himself, eyes closing tiredly. So often had they been fished from the communal laundry, saved only for the monogram that Thomas had so painstakingly stitched on each corner. _I did the same for my brother,_ he’d confessed, Edward feeling over his hands, distracting him from the work, kissing the nape of his neck. Bobby was always leaving his around. _This way, it might find itself way back to you_...

 

“My mother scolded me for it,” Edward said, a faint laugh to his voice that retreated as quickly as it came. “She said I’d lose my head if it wasn’t tied to me.”

 

“I wish I could -,” Thomas started. _If I could find my thread_ , he meant to say, which was entirely too foolish a notion for even one as addled as him to express. “I wish a great many things,” was what came out, hand still plastered to his forehead.

  
“What do you wish, Thomas?” Edward’s voice was the curious, soft cadence it took in the nighttime, when he had his head rested in the crook of his elbow so that Thomas might have more room, chest rising and falling against his shoulder.

  
Long he trained himself to believe that to tend to something meant more than owning it. It was, in part, to bring pride to his work, to give himself reason to care so much. His devotion was his greatest asset, and his favorite selfish charm about himself. To  care for something even if it did not belong to you was a sign of integrity; treating if it were part way yours was utmost in sincerity.

He pined for the objects that had once passed through his hands, for the times where they were full of that which he loved, all of it complete, and accounted for. He hated them just as equally. He reeled when he thought of how much effort he had wasted on such idiocy.

 

 _Your hands_ , _Jopson_ , he thought bitterly, _are entirely empty_. Everything had fled, dropped away, as water through a sieve.

 

But now, he only wished to know why Edward still thought of him at all, in all this rambling chaos. Why he thought of him at all. It was a great pain to love, and Edward had enough burdens on his shoulders. It was no shock to Thomas that he had not succumbed as much. Edward was always the stronger of them, and now that it was made obvious, he was nearly jealous of it - of the very air in his lungs and blood in his veins that was allowed to remain so close to him while he was pried from his side. 

 

“I wish,” Edward started. I could buy you a tea service. Like the one you fancied.” He put his hand on his knee, flexing it a few times, watching his stiff fingers operate. “There’s a fine one in the store window at Kendals, on Deansgate. Sterling silver for the cream and sugar set.”

 

Thomas was grateful his back was turned to Edward, so that he could not see the way his face crumpled unexpectedly, eyes squinting as he let his filthy sleeve and glove come to cover them helplessly. He choked on a breath, trying to squeeze it to a stop before it overtook him completely.

 

Thomas pressed on the table till the edge bit into his chapped palm.

 

“You’ve been moaning about it in your sleep, Tommy,” Edward whispered. “And sayin’ other things. I hear you. It’s breaking my heart...”

 

He kicked his boot heel lightly against the crate he sat on to cover his own tears, squinting at the ceiling of the tent, at the blue  and cloudless slivers of sky between the ropes.

 

Thomas covered his face with both his hands, his shoulders shaking hard, but no noise following. He’d long suspected it, with his throat so raw, and feeling twice as tired upon waking, but no one had given him the courtesy of confirmation that he was becoming a lunatic.

 

Edward wiped bare place on his cheek with a fraying cuff.

 

“They say it helps. The way the Captain does it, with Fitzjames,” Little said.   _Did_ , he reminded himself dully, stroking his whiskered face. “The pleasant talk,” he continued. “To keep the troubles away.”

 

“You don’t have to coddle me,” Thomas gasped, able to gain a momentary ground. “Or indulge it, Edward. I know… I know - you aren’t one for s-saccharine,” he trailed off. “You may leave me to my _sorting_ ,” he continued.

 

“If you have to go far from me,” Little replied, shrugging off the remark. His voice caught. “It might as well be to a place you like, Thomas. I can help you, before you leave me.”

 

“You are leaving _me!_ ” Thomas yelled, suddenly, his fist meeting the tabletop. He could not see for the tears, and his mouth struggled over the words, the way they pained him all the way to his gut, in his heart, in his _teeth_ , in every joint. “I feel it! I feel it! A rope slipping out of my hands, inch by inch - snow up to my neck - hands on my neck - ,” he panted for breath, the tent beginning to spin. A whirlpool, drawing him down, into the darkness that he could not be helped from.

  
The silence and maddening _hum_ of his own brain, and all its ravings. He could not narrow his scope on anything, he could not remember anything. Not the warmth of tea in his mouth, or Edward’s hand on his waist. To have clean hair - a smooth face again - his beard itched and burned with dirtiness -   

 

He felt Edward’s arms encircle him and he wailed, the table rattling as he ineffectively tried to push him away, the motion so much it buckled him at the knees.

 

“I wanted _Irving_ !” he tried to cry, but it was so weakened it came out as barely more than a stutter. “ _Irving_ \- I asked for _Irving_ \- I am a _Lieutenant!_ You shall not order me!”

 

“He’s dead, Tom,” Little said, forcing them even closer together, squeezing him tightly. “I was sent to tell you...”

 

This time Thomas did scream, the sound bellowing out from what seemed like all around.

 

“Listen to me,” Edward said, holding him fast, rushing the words. There would be footfalls soon in response to this commotion. Someone, always fetching someone, into perpetuity. Chains, upon chains.

 

“If I go first, you must promise to forgive me,” he murmured in his ear, pressing against Thomas’ face. “I know you, Tommy,” he said desperately, his mouth dry and firm against his forehead. “This hatred of me will end - you will remember you love me,” his voice broke and Thomas moaned, rocking on his feet, burying his face into Edward’s neck. His hands moved stupidly over Little’s jacket, clenching and raking in frustration. He wanted to howl.

 

Thomas sobbed, Edward grunting in the struggle to keep him upright, feeling the fever raging in him through his clothes. His sharp elbow knocked the delftware cup off the table and it landed with a crack on the floor of the tent.   


“How will I get to Manchester?” he bleated, sounding as lost and terrified as a child, and Edward closed his eyes, bearing down against the tears. “How will I get there -,” Thomas cried, and Little opened them again only to see Crozier’s face appear to the tent’s opening - a moon, something to which they all turned to, calling them in its invisible gravity. “Captain, there is no train - no train from Marylebone,” Thomas said, words slurring and giving way to dry heaving in a spasm. “Captain -,” Crozier walked unevenly into the tent.

 

Edward sagged so far under the weight of him that they were both nearly on the ground, his head bent over and his hair falling across his face messily - a gift - as he did not want the Captain to see his expression.

 

“Thomas,” the Captain said, touching Jopson’s hollow cheeks, Little relenting them both so that they could rest for a moment on floor. Jopson’s breath came raggedly, looking up at Francis from the cradle of Edward’s shoulder.   
  
“There are trees in the crates,” he muttered, the dried tears making shining tiger stripes upon his grimed face. His eyes darting to something unseen, though he fell quieter and calmer now, his fit expended. He swallowed, Crozier smoothing his collar. “I'm sorry, sir, the good china is all done for...”

 

“We will see to it, Thomas,” Crozier said. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we? You have earned a long rest today. You worked hard.”

 

“Edward shall take me,” Thomas whispered. “He is taking me to Kendals, in Manchester,” he said, and Crozier lifted his eyes to Little, who would not meet them, but slowly passed his hand over the top of Thomas’ head in a far familiar way, tucking the errant strand at the front behind his ear the way he liked.

  
“A fine idea,” Crozier said, peering down at him. “But let us wait a while, and not have too much excitement for now...alright?” he watched as Thomas nodded, feebly mirroring the Captain’s own gesture. Crozier squeezed Thomas’ limp hand. “Good lad.” He smiled reassuringly and Thomas smiled back, his cheek sinking against the stiff seam of Edward’s jacket.

 

“I have him, sir,” Little said, lifting Thomas up so that he could sling him more into his arms, staggering slightly but soon finding his feet and giving all appearance of having no trouble. He said nothing else, simply carrying the tangle of Thomas’ body to the sick tent, knowing the way very well. In the light that swelled in as he opened the flap for them to pass, Crozier watched as Thomas lifted his shaking hand and touched it softly against Edward’s cheek, gazing up as if he had only just recognized him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i really love this pairing cause i'm an idiot. so i wanted to write something sad, and to fill in the gaps in my brain, but i promise i also have nice things for them too. anyway!!!! sorry if any of the historical or technical language doesn't make sense i've only watched the show 2x now and just barely know what the fuck anyone was even sayin'. also excuse any typos - a bitch can't see thru her tears. there are some BOMB writers in this fandom and i know this is probably like. nowhere in comparison.


End file.
